John M. Bennett

Sweep What

what flaming pile what numbered steak what
clinging to the beet faucet coughing what a
nameless mile what slumbered rake what
wringing out the sheet wallet sloughing
off the stinger fizzle claiming bile what
fumbled fake or singing out the feet’s
closet ,tossing off the blinder whistle not
the same style encumbered with a
naked phone gristle ,mind or sweep





Eat Aches

eat the ant cake sweaty with your
sound inches hunkered in the dollar meat
the pant’s lake plenty with your ground
itch bunkered in the swallowed ball of
dust your feet and damp shakes went
and found the hunted ditches where your
fall wallowed just a street and lamp ,aches